


Impatiens

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6836323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir and Melpomaen want Elrond and settle for one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impatiens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilreign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilreign/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for aprilriegn’s “Lindir(scribe)/Melpomean(minstrel), both are friends, both pining after Elrond, Lindir know of Mel's pining or flirting,Mel is clueless, Lindir tries to distract or talk to Mel about it and they awkwardly end up having hot steamy kissing or sex. Lindir slightly more dom than Mel. Rating can be Mature or Explicit” prompt on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). This was a bit difficult as it’s not a short idea, so sorry for the cutting off and lower rating. ^^;
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or The Hobbit or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

A few papers Elrond must sign, and others Lindir simply recites, filling his lord in on the news of the day. Lindir reports thinks that have little bearing to Imladris at all, asks for confirmation on things that need no such authority, and speaks slower than usual, simply to draw out their time together—but unfortunately, it still comes to an end. Elrond offers him a polite smile and stands, nodding across the garden enclave to Melpomaen, who sits on a similar stone bench with a harp in his hands. The musical notes slip along Elrond’s parting, Melpomaen’s face visibly dropping as his lord turns away. Lindir’s sure his expression isn’t so different. He watches Elrond leave with a familiar sense of regret and _longing_ , sigh as melancholy as Melpomaen’s song. When Elrond is out of sight, the tune remains, but it’s stunted now: the inspiration gone. Lindir understands. 

Lindir thinks he knows why the beautiful elf across from him looks so very lost, but he still asks, “He is very handsome, is he not?” Melpomaen doesn’t ask who nor look up at Lindir, simply blushes and nods. They are in the same boat, then. Lindir let’s out a long sigh—it’s competition he doesn’t need, but then, he’s never been truly in the running anyway, and at least he now has someone to commiserate with. 

He shuffles his papers into a stack and leaves them on the bench, then rises and crosses the grass. Melpomaen eyes him as Lindir takes a close seat, the short bench leaving them leg-to-leg. As much to himself as Melpomaen, Lindir murmurs, “It is a hard road, pining after a lord.”

Melpomaen’s fingers fall. He stops pretending to play, the silence fitting. He doesn’t deny it but returns wistfully, “I have little hope of being with any elf, so there is no harm in aiming high.”

This wasn’t what Lindir was expecting. Tilting his head, he asks, “Why do you think you will have none?” As far as he knows, Melpomaen is one of Imladris’ best minstrels, and he’s still young—even younger than Lindir—and soft and attractive, with his long hair spilling freely down his shoulders, no circlet or braids to hold it back. He gives Lindir a sheepish smile. 

“I am quiet, and not as outgoing as some, nor as brave as most, and I am but a minstrel, and—”

“You are very pretty, though,” Lindir interjects, before Melpomaen can disparage himself anymore. Melpomaen’s fair cheeks stain a darker pink, his face ducking to hide a smile. He brushes a fallen strand of ash-brown hair behind his ear.

“Thank you,” he mutters, before glancing sideways and shyly admitting, “You are as well.”

Lindir can’t help but smile in return. In truth, he’s no better than Melpomaen—he can’t remember a time when he didn’t want his lord Elrond, and he’d always assumed he would have no other. Now he wonders if he’s finally found another elf as inexperienced as himself, maybe more so. He finds himself asking, “Have you ever...?” He can’t even say it, not to such an innocent face.

Melpomaen still seems to understand and answers, “I... I would like to.” Which likely means he hasn’t. When Lindir only stares at him, feeling an odd spark of kinship and bizarre joy at garnering such an intimate confession from such a beautiful creature, Melpomaen adds, “I suppose if I ever hope to please Lord Elrond, I should practice.”

That’s as good an excuse as any, and Lindir muses, “That is true. ...For both of us.” Lindir’s sure his own affections are obvious; Melpomaen doesn’t look the least bit surprised. 

They’re left in a comfortable silence for a brief moment, wherein Lindir stares at his similarly struck friend and wonders, not for the first time, if it would be at all right to use this for a substitute. Then he wonders if he even has the strength—he always imagined himself subservient and submissive for his lord, but Melpomaen wouldn’t initiate anything, and here, the responsibility would fall on Lindir’s shoulders. He doesn’t think he’s strong enough. But he also reminds himself that if he can’t take the lead with someone so quiet and sweet as Melpomaen, he would have no hope with anyone. 

He summons a breath of courage, asks himself what his lord would do, and leans fractionally forward, just enough to brush his lips over Melpomaen’s.

Melpomaen, to his delight but not surprise, presses lightly back, mewling cutely into the kiss. Lindir pushes nearer, harder, and then parts his lips to stick out his tongue. He runs it across Melpomaen’s seam, and with a little gasp, Melpomaen opens. Lindir lifts a hand to cup Melpomaen’s warm cheek, gently thumbing his soft skin whilst deepening the kiss. Even with so little experience as he has, Lindir’s instincts kick in—it isn’t difficult; Melpomaen comes with a pleasant taste, a floral aroma, plush warmth and a wealth of little noises, each more alluring than the last. Melpomaen follows Lindir’s lead, tentatively brushing over his tongue and reaching to stroke his face, but doesn’t seem to know what to do beyond that, and it’s wildly endearing. Lindir doesn’t have to feel weak or inadequate. He simply luxuriates in whichever sensation he wants to experience, and Melpomaen happily melds into it. 

One kiss falls into another, and soon Lindir is pressing more of their bodies together, one leg sliding over Melpomaen’s thighs and one hand running down his lithe side. Lindir pulls Melpomaen tightly into him, their chests flattening together, their tongues all the deeper for it. It’s easy to transition from holding Melpomaen in to tracing his spine, feeling across him, mapping out his slim waist, then rising back to his shoulders. Lindir takes a fistful of Melpomaen’s robes and dares to part them, tugging them down one slender shoulder. Melpomaen gasps again and clutches to Lindir all the tighter. Lindir exposes more and more of him, opening up creaming skin to eagerly run greedy hands over, and Melpomaen lifts a hand to stroke hesitantly around the buttons of Lindir’s robes. 

They’re still out in the gardens, but they have walls of flowers and bushes and trees protecting them, and they would hardly be the first elves to make love in the grass—Lindir thinks he could go that far, calling it practice but really just _desire_ tumbling further and further—he can see now that Melpomaen won’t stop him, and Lindir knows he’ll never have his lord, couldn’t possibly, isn’t this a good second? Kissing Melpomaen is intoxicating. It feels easy, right, and soon they’re grinding into one another, Melpomaen writhing against him, practically in his lap. He can feel the bulge in Melpomaen’s robes and is all too aware of his own length straining for release. He wonders if they should slip off the bench now, lie across the gardens and taste one another, trying vainly to chase away their useless longing for another—Lindir’s never done that before, but he would like to learn, and Melpomaen might be the perfect test subject on which to practice...

“Lindir, I had forgotten—” Elrond’s voice slices into Lindir’s dizzy mind like a sword, cutting right off. 

One hand still holding Melpomaen’s robes obscenely down one shoulder and the other pressed between Melpomaen’s legs, Lindir looks sharply aside. Melpomaen mewls at first, trying to follow for another kiss, then must spot Elrond and turns just as frozen. The two of them eye their lord, flushed and breathless, while Elrond stares, opened mouthed, between them. 

It takes him a moment to recover. Then he murmurs, “I apologize for the interruption,” and turns to leave as though he hasn’t just witnessed the wanton defiling of his gardens. 

Lindir, even painfully hard as he is, scrambles instantly off the bench to follow, Melpomaen tumbling right after and uttering similar cries as Lindir babbles, “My lord, please, this was nothing—I assure you I am still available!”


End file.
